


there's something about a sailor (well, you know what sailors are!)

by Gwerfel



Series: Tozer and Fitzjames' long cold winter (feat. everybody else) [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, bisexual tozer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23667286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: Four years after Tozer and Fitzjames first met in Portsmouth, Sol finds himself in Greenhithe, waiting for the expedition to leave and wondering where the bloody tins have got to.First part of my sequel to 'Tozer and Fitzjames' long hot summer (feat. Dundy)' series.
Relationships: Sgt Solomon Tozer/Commander James Fitzjames (past), Sgt Solomon Tozer/Original Character
Series: Tozer and Fitzjames' long cold winter (feat. everybody else) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704130
Comments: 22
Kudos: 30





	there's something about a sailor (well, you know what sailors are!)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a 'setting up' chapter, but good things come to those who wait. 
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to everybody who read the first series of FJ/Tozer fics I wrote, and especially those who not so subtly wondered what might happen when they eventually encountered each other again in 1845. 
> 
> And if I may once again express my undying gratitude and love for kt_fairy for just being a stunning person and an incredible listener, reader and caulker's mate. What would I do without your comforting crab claw squeezes <3

The sun will be setting soon, and though Tozer has never been one to shirk his duty or complain over hard work, he is eager that today ends when it is supposed to. It isn’t often that he has plans for his evenings, and on this occasion he would very much like to keep them, for time is short - by all accounts they will be sailing at the soonest opportunity. 

The ships themselves have been ready for days; Erebus and Terror stand rigged and waiting in Greenhithe’s harbour, towering grandly above the brick dockyard, rocking gently and soaking up the last warm amber rays of evening sunlight. The Thames stretches broad and steady, with London far behind them and the open sea just around the wide bend in the venerable old river.

“How’s it looking?” Tozer asks Sergeant Bryant, who is following four marines with a watchful eye as they waddle past, squatting low like crabs under the weight of an enormous sealed up crate. 

Bryant stops to greet Tozer with a blunt nod.

"That's all there is for now," he replies, glancing after the men carrying the crate, now navigating the ramp into Erebus, "don't know what they'll have us lugging tomorrow.”

“Make way!” a man shouts, and both sergeants quickly stand aside, closer to the edge of the dock as the stokers rumble past pushing a great trolly loaded up with coal for the engines. On the other side of Erebus’ gangplank a group of lieutenants and midshipman stand watching, chattering like women in a tea parlour as the red-faced stokers carefully begin to board the ship, the plank bowing under the weight of their cargo. Steam engines on ships, who ever heard of such a thing - certainly no one in Greenhithe.

The little Kentish harbour is nothing to compare with Portsmouth or Chatham, but the dockside is lively as you might expect for such a grand occasion. Naval officers with no connection to the expedition have been coming and going all day. They have not come to do anything useful as far as Tozer can tell, only to talk amongst themselves in their freshly pressed uniforms, parading up and down the seafront making grandiose gestures at the newly outfitted vessels. They are a general nuisance; getting in the way of the detachments of red coated marines and blue jacketed seamen who shuttle back and forth across the cobbled harbourside carrying crates and boxes and trunks from the merchant boats and ferries and up onto the ships' boarding ramps.

“Last of the coal, too,” Bryant adds, withdrawing his pipe to puff on. “Done for the day, I should think.”

"Holds aren't half full yet," Tozer frowns. "Where's the rest?"

"On its way, so they keep saying. Don't think even the purser knows for sure."

"Well, who's bloody responsible for it?"

"Commander Fitzjames."

"And where is he?"

"Woolwich, according to the master’s mate.”

"Late as well, then." Tozer returns with a tut. 

Privately, he can well imagine preferring Woolwich to Greenhithe, if you had the choice. He himself was barely there a few days - after half a year at Chatham they marched Tozer and the rest of the detachment chosen for Franklin’s Arctic expedition all the way across to London, only to have them board the ships and sail their merry way straight back to Kent. 

He has come to expect this kind of shunting back and forth from the navy, whose tactical decisions never cease to bewilder Tozer. How pleasant it must be to be an officer, permitted to dawdle and appear when it suits him. 

“Laid up in a Southwark whorehouse, I’ll wager,” he sneers.

"He's a war hero, you know. China war."

“S’pose that counts towards something.” Tozer shrugs, “at least Captain Crozier’s here on time - and all his men. Mark of dependable leadership, that.” 

“The commander’s not dallying for sport,” Bryant straightens, jutting his jaw. “He’s attending lessons - _mag-net-is-m_.” He pronounces the word very slowly, in bits and pieces. “What all these implements are for,” he nods at a young marine passing with a crate. 

Through the slats Tozer can see the glint of brass, the glimmer of obscure scientific contraptions meant for taking the measurements of something which he’s sure is far beyond his own understanding - and his interest, most likely.

“ _Sir John_ speaks very highly of Commander Fitzjames; I have heard him,” Bryant puffs. “So forgive me if I balance your poor temper with his good opinion.”

Already he has grown defensive of the Erebus officers, quick to point out their pedigree and suitability for what lies ahead. So it always is, Tozer thinks, and so it ought to be. 

Bryant is a man Solomon will have no qualms about respecting, even if he doesn't think he will much enjoy his company. He has been a marine as long as Solomon has, and is a northerner too - which ought to play in his favour - but he has a small view of the world, and Tozer cannot find a foothold for good conversation with him. Still, he works hard and is fair with the men, and those are the only qualifications he really needs, in Solomon's eyes. 

Four oxen are driven by them next, led by four skittish looking seamen who veer and duck away from the beasts’ great horns. They’re bound for the hold with everything else, it will be a cramped journey to Greenland and no mistake. 

As well as preening lieutenants, bow legged sailors and disgruntled livestock, the harbour has been swarming with newspaper men and the local elite - even a few ladies who’ve been brought down to tour the ships in their finery, or to sit for dinner in Sir John’s great cabin. 

Tozer himself has not seen the great cabin himself, yet, and isn’t likely to for some months, if he will at all - Bryant is the Marine Sergeant for Erebus. Tozer doesn’t begrudge him it, neither of them choose which ship they are posted to, and Terror’s captain, Crozier, was on the Ross expedition some years ago, so his own achievements are nothing to be sniffed at. Still, it is a bit of a knock to tell your mates you will be sailing with the famed explorer Sir John Franklin, only to find yourself appointed to the sister ship.

“Magnetism lessons,” he mutters scornfully. “They’re never done with schooling, that lot.” 

He has never been on a scientific expedition before, he didn’t know there was so much to it.

“Rather them than me,” Bryant replies dryly, before turning his attention to two of his privates carrying one large box between them, “Braine! Pilkington!” he barks, striding over, “get that left side up! You drop it and it’s coming out of your pay.”

Tozer watches him go, and looks out for his own men. Hedges, Daly, Hammond, Heather, Wilkes. He knew them all well at Chatham, and he is very pleased to sail with them now. They may be away three years or longer, and knowing he is already friendly with his comrades is the best forecast he could hope for. Conditions will be hard, he’s been told that often enough already. He has heard that in the arctic seas, the rum can freeze solid in its barrel; that there is no sun for months, but strange lights dance in the sky. As much as these warnings unsettle him, he is eager to see them first hand, and eager to meet the challenge they present.

As for the rest of Terror’s crew, it is wise to observe them now, to get a feel for each of their vices and particular quirks; who is a braggart and who has a quick temper; the heavy drinkers and the grousers. Most of them are young, still fresh faced and beaming in anticipation of an adventure, on the lookout - as all young sailors are - for the voyage that will be the true making of them. 

There is plenty of noise and chatter in the fo’c’sle of an evening, but none are too rowdy, and there’s a certain allowance for high spirits considering their voyage has not yet begun. The work now is not as hard as it will be in a few months, and Tozer is satisfied that the men will settle into the same steady rhythm all crews do once they’re underway. Solomon is seasoned enough to know always to expect at least one catastrophe, from within the ship or without it, but - aside from the lateness of the supplies and one lagging commander - the preparations so far have been the most thorough Tozer has seen, so he has few worries. 

He lays eyes on the boatswain, who has begun calling the men back into the ship, and Tozer signals to the marines to follow suit once they’ve completed their own tasks. He himself will not be boarding for some hours yet - he will be spending his evening ashore. He cannot help smiling to himself at the notion, which he has been putting off thinking about all day, for as soon as Violet Gold enters his mind he is done for; there will be no hope of working. 

Not wanting to be seen mooning like an idiot before they have even set sail, Solomon turns his back on the dockside and rolls a cigarette, gazing over the grey mudflats to the sea. 

In the course of his life he has looked out at the sea from a variety of vantage points - at least more than most men have. He has never tired of it, for it is never the same. Greenhithe is a trifling place, with no proper barracks, though it matters little now, as the crew are now all settled on the ships. Those who arrived in good time, that is, for they are already some days late in leaving.

Still, they have been enjoying a fair blue May on the Kentish coast, and today in particular has been a glorious one for sunshine. Now evening is drawing in; the seabirds are screaming, swooping low through the deepening twilight to fish for their supper. Tall black and white herons with beaks like scythes gather on the thin stretches of dark sand and pick for wrinkles and crabs in the rock pools, squawking and chattering amiably amongst themselves. 

“Evening, sergeant,” Private Heather comes to join him just as he has struck his match. 

Over the past week they have been in Greenhithe it has become their habit to stand together on the dockside and smoke - Tozer his paper cigarettes, Heather his wooden pipe - for a few minutes before boarding Terror for the night. It’s very pleasant indeed, William Heather is fine company and a good pal.

"A good day," Heather points the stem of his pipe up at the ships, "progress made."

"Doesn't matter what progress we make if others aren't picking up their end. You heard the tins are late?"

"Look on the bright side, young Tozer," Heather smiles benignly at the water, "beef for dinner."

"That’s _Sergeant Tozer,_ Private," Solomon gives him a sidelong glance. Heather pulls an indifferent face, eyes twinkling.

"You may call me ‘Old Heather’, if it pleases."

Tozer laughs despite himself. "No beef for me, I must be off. I’ve leave to spend the evening in town."

"How did you wrangle that, then?"

"Captain Crozier took pity when I told him it was to visit a dear married sister I have not seen these five years."

Heather chuckled, tapping the bowl of his pipe, “come all the way down from _oop north_ just to see you, has she?” He says in a poor imitation of Solomon’s accent. 

“Careful there, Private,” Tozer, shakes his head, sternly. “I’ll have you written up.”

“Right you are, sir,” Heather nods. They both grin slyly at each other. 

Tozer only occasionally asserts his superior office - and Heather in turn honours it - by mutual agreement, like neighbours with bordering crops who see no need for a fence. 

Their friendship has weathered all kinds. They met three years ago in Africa, and quickly formed an easy familiarity which took root too early to be much disrupted by rank. Besides that is the fact of their difference in age; Heather was already past his prime when he joined the marines, and it still strikes Tozer as an unusual choice of career, for Heather is a decent man; good humoured and soft spoken. In his experience older recruits are escaping another life, but Heather speaks of his wife and his three kids with great fondness.

Likewise, lesser men might find answering to a sergeant a decade younger than them hard to swallow, but Heather is a person always at peace with himself, never one to grumble and always first to fall in with an order. 

“I’m off, then,” Tozer finishes his cigarette and flicks it into the water.

“Send my regards to Miss Gold,” Heather winks.

“Aye, and enjoy your supper.”

“Won’t half so much as you enjoy yours.”

Tozer lets that go - no one overheard and Heather always means well. Besides, it’s true enough.

* * *

"Oh! Solomon!" Violet sighs, her fingers grasping at his bare shoulders and her hips rocking upwards. He increases the pace of his tongue and curls his fingers inside her, feeling her begin to tremble and pulse around them as she cries out "oh, oh, oh..."

She comes to bliss with great energy; carefree with it, crying out like a gull. Tozer's prick leaps when he feels her clench his fingers again as she bucks up against his steady pressing tongue. She braces her feet on his thighs and gives a long dark moan before slowly relaxing back into the mattress once more, sighing, rolling her hips gently up and down like the evening tide. 

He lets off a bit, slowing his own movements, but doesn't stop, only softens and waits for the wave to return again. It is a trick she taught him; how to take enough care after she has crested the first peak to coax her back to fulfillment.

She hums low, stroking his hair, and he follows her lead, enjoying the kind warmth of her body, her soft thighs brushing against his ears, the taste between her legs, where she is flushed as red as polished coral by his attentions. He reaches up to feel her, tracing the grooves left in her skin by the ribs of her stays; long animal stripes. She sighs again and brings his hand to her breast which he strokes and kneads obligingly.

The bed sags and groans under them, Tozer’s knees ache and his neck grows stiff, yet he can think of no better way to spend his last night of liberty. 

Soon Violet begins to pant once more, "Solomon, Solomon…"

She always calls him Solomon, never Sol. She rolls his name around in her mouth as if she can taste it. She’s not an English girl, from somewhere landlocked in an eastern corner of Europe. 

She cries out something in her native tongue which he cannot understand. It sounds very sweet to his ears, though he supposes it must be a curse, by the way she is now clawing at his scalp, curling her toes against his bare thighs. Her crisis shudders through them both, and his thrusting fingers grow slicker still. Solomon feels the sweat spring up on his back, his prick is straining with desire as Violet finds her delight, pushing upwards and twisting her fingers in his damp hair.

"Mmm," she murmurs drowsily, raising her arms over her head and stretching.

He softly withdraws his fingers and plants light kisses over her dark thatch of hair before raising his head. She smiles down at him, her eyes are bright and her face pink from the collarbone up, she is glowing like a lantern. 

“Kiss me!” she beckons him closer and he climbs over her, supporting himself on stiff arms, ignoring the click in his knees as he unfurls, placing a hand either side of the pillow she lays on. 

He bends low and kisses her deeply, and she wraps her long legs around his waist, bringing him so close that his burning prick slides against her belly, making him groan. She grins, kissing his cheek and squeezing her thighs and pants, "inside, inside…"

He needs no further encouragement, only a moment to settle himself more comfortably between her legs. As he brings his cock to the charge she reaches up to grip the iron bars of the bed frame and cants up again to receive him. He sinks into the soft wet heat of her and Violet squeezes him tighter, ankles digging into his backside, drawing him in with a gasp of satisfaction. 

Solomon begins to move inside her, hot excitement building fast in his gut. As he pursues his own release he slides a hand down between them and presses his thumb to that little knot of flesh which brings her the most pleasure of all. She squirms, sighing and rising up to meet his thrusts, which grow more frenzied with every ecstatic collision. 

“Mmm,” she whines against his ear, “fuck!”

The intensity of the fire inside him is overwhelming, and as he begins to convulse he withdraws quickly, spending over her belly, rutting himself between their warm, slick bodies and groaning. 

They lie quietly, breathing a few moments before she releases him, her legs slack, and he rolls over onto the pile of pillows and sheets beside her. She turns onto her side and stirs the hair on his chest with her long cool fingers. 

"I've been thinking about that all week."

He makes a sound which he hopes is agreeable, throwing an arm over his face.

"What will I do while you are gone?" She whispers. 

She is the first to rise, kissing his neck and heaving herself up. He shifts his arm to watch her stand. The pins in her hair have come loose, so that dark strands fall in disarray, sticking to her neck like black seaweed. The faint muffled noises from the bar downstairs filter up through the floorboards, and outside, perhaps a street or two away, someone is playing a fiddle.

“Do you think they heard us down there?” She flashes him a grin as she crosses to the dressing table opposite the bed. 

“May have,” he replies.

She smiles to herself in the mirror, pouring water from the jug left out into a wide porcelain basin. 

“Tomorrow morning my reputation in _Greenhithe_ will be ruined forever,” she soaks a flannel, wrings it out and flings it at him.

“Without a doubt,” he laughs, catching the cool wet cloth mid air and washing his face with it, scrubbing at his beard. 

“You’ll see me ruined before I ever see London,” she chides, splashing her face as she sits before the mirror, taking a second flannel to wipe off her belly. “Wicked man.”

There is a birthmark on her hip which looks like a little island on a sea chart. Violet begins to unpin her hair slowly, because she knows he likes to see it. He lies back, watching her peacefully, his limbs lying sprawled and heavy on the sagging mattress. The bed sheets are like banners of war strewn across a splendid battlefield, and the tiny circular window in the eaves is yellow from the gas lamps lining the street outside.

There is no real threat to her honour - at least he doesn't think so. When he arrived to meet her she was wearing a wedding ring (brass, she promised, from the costume box at the theatre), and the landlord had him down as _Mr Gold_. "I had to use my own name," she shrugged when he questioned it, "who has ever heard of 'Violet Tozer'? It sounds hideous."

The room is only paid for the night, Violet will be leaving tomorrow morning back to Canterbury. That is where he first met her - on a night’s leave from Chatham some four months ago, before the expedition was on his horizon. He and his mates had been on a bit of a spree, which ended in a tavern near the music hall. After the curtain fell on that night’s performance the actors and singers came trooping in, still bedecked in their costumes. Tozer was dazzled by Violet the moment he caught sight of her - dressed up like an empress, wrapped in a satin the brightest shade of blue he had ever seen.

She has dark hair, black as india ink, and that night it was bedecked in pearls which shone bright as jewels in the firelight of that jolly tavern. When he found the nerve to approach her, Solomon found himself entirely bewitched by the sweet, rich fullness of her voice; her strange accent and the way she savored every word she spoke, addressing him directly with wide and serious eyes, as golden as a cat's. 

Violet Gold. It's a name she chose herself for the stage, and Solomon has never met anybody quite like her. He had her that night, and has had her as often as he's been able to ever since. 

He has never thought to take a wife, as much as he revels in the joy of a warm bed, but there have been times with Violet he thinks he might be convinced - if only she herself weren't so set against the idea. She wishes only to belong to herself, and he admires her all the more for that. If there is anything he regrets leaving in Kent, it is his lovely Vi.

"Are you hungry, darling?" She turns to him now, her hair completely loose so it tumbles down her back as she combs her fingers through it. 

"Not very," he says.

"Must you really go back to that awful ship?" She begins to twist her hair into a long plait.

"It isn’t awful."

"It's not here, with me. I think about you every night in your hammock, with all the other marines. I think about creeping aboard and coming to find you."

Tozer chuckles, spreading his arms out on the bed to make the most of the space, "Captain Crozier might have a thing or two to say about that."

"Captain Crozier _and_ Mr Mandraga," she laughs in return. "I've run away tonight, did I tell you? He would not let me come to see you."

"Will it get you into trouble?"

She laughs again, "I am his _finest_ performer. I do not think so." Finished with her hair, she whips the velvet braid over her shoulder and gets up again, "I will learn a new song for him, and all will be forgiven."

Violet crawls back into bed, curling up against Solomon, drawing the sheets up over them. She smells of rosewater, and of him.

"You're so lovely and warm," she says softly. “I can’t imagine you going somewhere so cold.”

“The ship is heated,” he replies sleepily, wrapping his arms about her, “I’ll hardly feel a chill.”

“Two years,” she sighs, “you’ll forget all about me. You’ll fall in love with an _esquimaux_ girl.”

"Never," he squeezes her tighter.

"A sailor, then," she glances up at him cheekily. 

She's the sort of woman that likes to talk after making love; she will cradle his head in her lap or against her bosom and stroke him tenderly, asking him all sorts. She loves to hear stories, and Solomon - being impressionable and loose after a good fucking - has told her almost every secret of his life, every intimate memory he previously only kept for himself. In this way she has made him hers. 

"Not likely," he huffs, kissing her forehead.

She has always listened to his tales with relish and never shock. Violet has travelled almost as widely as Solomon has, and always around theatrical sorts. Her eyes are opened wider than most.

"You know, Mr Mandraga, he thinks I should be more daring." She says, playfully,

"How?"

"He wants me to dress up as a man, can you imagine it?" She rolls against him, beneath the sheets.

"You, in breeches?" His mouth turns wet, he is stirred out of his lethargy as he imagines her lovely round arse in a pair of fine tailored trousers. "I could see it."

She must catch something about the way he says it, because her smile turns sly, "oh yes, Solomon?" She purrs, her hand beginning to wander, "would I make a handsome young man?"

"You'd be a stunner in any get up," he replies, skin flushing hot again. He shifts to afford her better access, parting his legs a little. 

It's love that's got them both, Solomon knows it, even having been a stranger to it so long. They have not said the words, but nor do they need to. When they are together she is all for him, and he all for her, and that is more than any man might ask. 

They don't say it because they are not foolish - Violet has her eyes set on a real stage, a bigger audience and a finer life than this. Solomon himself has always been a restless sort. They would make each other miserable in the end, no matter how sweet things are now, and no matter how honestly he burns for her.

“Solomon,” she purrs, stroking his length slowly, “my sweet marine. Will you miss me very much at sea?”

“Very much,” he confirms with a kiss, “will you miss me?”

“Of course I will, even though I will be very busy working. I think I will be off to London any week now, Mr Mandraga says so.”

“Then I shall know where to find you when I come home,” he kisses her again.

* * *

He arrives back at Terror in the small hours, much later than his orders really permitted. Fortunately Lieutenant Hodgson has the watch, and he is as keen to make a good impression on the men as he is inclined towards an evening of good sport himself.

“A night of merrymaking is just the ticket before a voyage, eh Sergeant?” He beams his clownish grin at Tozer as he boards. Tozer smiles back cheerfully,

“Aye, sir. I knew you would understand.”

There’s a whistle and a jeer from somewhere in the fo’c’sle as he creeps silently through to his hammock, but he ignores it, for nothing could bear down on his thoroughly buoyant mood. He clambers into his hammock, drunk on Violet, and falls asleep at once, every limb aching warmly.

The next morning is a trial, but he drags himself awake and sees to the day’s exercises while the dockyard is still quiet enough to use the space. Breakfast is porridge, as ever, and Tozer's thoughts are filled with Violet. He fancies he can still smell rosewater on his skin, no matter what he does she reappears to him in flashes as he tries to go about his work. He has not seen her perform yet, though he has been inside her dressing room and she has paraded all of her costumes for him. He ought to have made the effort to attend the Music Hall while there was still time, he would like to see her all lit up and adored.

He tells himself not to think on it - to put Violet out of his thoughts, at least for now. Of all the foolish things to take with you to sea, regrets are the worst of all.

Bryant comes to find him shortly before mid-morning with an uncharacteristically disquieted look on his face,

“I have just met Lieutenant Le Vesconte,” he says, forehead creasing, “he and the Commander arrived last night. He told me - I believe he meant to say that the Goldner’s tins have arrived, we may begin loading.”

“Fine,” Tozer nods, “I’ll have my men there now.”

The loading of eight thousand large tins from a merchantman and into the holds of two ships in one afternoon is no mean feat, and Tozer finds himself more active than he had been in many weeks (excusing the night before). He begins by supervising the unloading, which is a quick job with the aid of the crew of the merchantman that has brought the cargo up from London, but soon finds that efforts appear to slow down once the provisions reach the dockside. An hour into their labour, he finds to his dismay that nothing has made it into either hold.

The men have piled up boxes on the cobblestones between the two ship's ramps, and are standing gathered about these piles as idle and confused as sheep while two of Erebus' marines bicker with each other.

One is Braine, a spiteful sort with a quick temper. He is raging at the younger Pilkington, who is red in the face with frustration.

“Can you read, Pilkington?” Braine yells.

"Course I bloody can - I can't be blamed for the wind, can I?"

"The _wind_ ," Braine scoffs, "you're all the same, you kids, can't keep your wits about you."

"What's this, then? Shift these boxes before the captains see you!" Tozer marches over.

"We would, sergeant," Braine stands to attention, encouraging the onlookers to do the same, "but _Pilkington_ here has lost the--"

"I did _not_ lose it, Sergeant Tozer!" Pilkington pleaded, "it blew right out of my hands as I was--"

"You dropped it!" Braine growls.

"I did not!"

“Who’s got the damn list, then?” Tozer speaks over both of them.

“Lieutenant Le Vesconte, sergeant," Pilkington pleads, "he gave it to me, but I set it down, and now--”

“Christ,” Toxzer shakes his head, “I’ll be telling Bryant. Go and find the lieutenant, tell him you’ve lost it.”

“Me, sergeant?” Pilkington blinks at him, startled. He's a new recruit, from what Solomon remembers, and young. They're often fretful about approaching officers for anything, having the fear of god drilled into them in their training.

"Fine," Tozer sets his jaw, "I'll go. Braine, report to Bryant in the hold, tell him to send Healey out here in your place - and you can tell him why, and all."

He walks back across the harbour, away from Erebus and Terror and towards the narrow jetty where Goldner’s merchantman is docked. She’s a flat-bottomed Thames barge, with her sails still up and billowing in the sunshine. The muddy river gleams like a mirror beneath the stilts of the jetty, calling up another memory of Violet - one of her spangly dresses which shivers and glitters as she moves. Tozer carefully presses that thought down once again.

He can see the silhouette of an officer he takes to be Le Vesconte standing on the deck of the little boat with the captain of the vessel, talking animatedly. Solomon quickly walks up the gangplank and as he grows closer, he sees that the officer is somehow familiar to him. It is a queer sensation; he recognises the posture and something about the profile. He’s uniformed; tall with long thin legs and neat silvery hair beneath his wide hat. When Tozer is near enough to hear his voice he feels a jolt of remembrance and a prickling on the back of his neck. 

"...and you say the tide here takes six hours to subside? I have never sailed the river myself you see, seems she must be a damned sight more reliable than the bounding main, eh?"

"If you say so," the merchant captain nods blankly. 

Tozer approaches, hardly believing his eyes, “Lieutenant Le Vesconte, sir?”

The man who is conversing jovially with the captain of the merchantman turns, his eyes lighting up at once. 

“I say, Sergeant! Jolly good to see you again, have you kept well?”

“...aye, sir.”

The lieutenant crosses the deck to shake his hand warmly, talking all the while, “will you be joining us to the passage? What a small place the navy is, eh, rather like school. Now, where was it we met, Portsmouth? Forgive me - my mind is a sieve when it comes to remembering ports, we do see so many, don’t we?”

“We do, sir. I mean - it was Portsmouth, sir.”

“Excellent, excellent! How can I help you?”

“There is… the list you gave for the tins, it seems to have been misplaced. There’s a wind blowing into the harbour, you see, sir.” He curses himself for not sending Pilkington, knowing what an idiot he sounds. 

“Ah, well, I have a copy here, not to worry,” the lieutenant pulls a tidily folded square of paper from his pocket, and Solomon remembers the black treacle incident with an unexpected flutter of warmth. “Will you take it down, sergeant…?”

“Tozer, sir,”

“Sergeant Tozer,” the lieutenant smiles again, “of Terror, correct?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Good man! Here you are then - I shall be with you presently - just jawing away to Captain Akehurst, here.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tozer accepts the paper and retreats quickly, stooping to help an AB with one of the last boxes of tinned provisions out back onto the brightly lit dockyard.

He decides it best to keep hold of the list for now, and begins instructing the men who are still standing all gathered about in confusion, directing them to the correct vessel. Work falls back into a good rhythm, sailors being at better ease when completing a clearly laid out task. 

What a funny thing, he thinks when he has a moment - to find himself now sailing with a man who he has only ever met at his leisure. Le Vesconte is correct; while the British navy’s reach stretches across every sea and touches almost every shore, it can still seem small as a village, sometimes; he's often run into old friends in strange corners of the world.

It’s been four years since that long sticky summer in Portsmouth, before he was in Africa; before a great many things. It was a careless time, Solomon cannot imagine behaving so loosely now.

After midday the sun is high and there is finally an orderly stream of men entering and exiting each ship, collecting up crates as they go. Tozer is ready to congratulate himself on his handling of the mess when he hears an officer shout across the cobblestoned dockyard.

"You there, marine!"

He turns, squinting against the sunlight and tilting his head back to catch the shade in the peak of his cap. The man striding towards him is in a uniform with a commander's epaulettes, and so he automatically straightens his back and raises his chin before even looking at his face.

"Sir," he says dutifully, saluting. And then he sees him.

He has not changed so much in four years, perhaps the lines around his eyes are a little deeper, his jaw a little broader. He is still handsome, still black eyed and looking very well indeed in his uniform. His fond lieutenant. 

The revelation appears to be just as sudden for the officer; he stops abruptly, a yard or two short of where he may have planned to. 

"You… are not Sergeant Bryant?" he says, squaring his shoulders and putting out any light of recognition in his face, arranging himself carefully as always. 

"No, sir…” Solomon swallows, lowering his hand, “Sergeant Tozer, sir, Terror."

"Ah," he nods a little too sharply, "Tozer. Very good. Would you happen to know where Bryant is?"

"I believe he is aboard Erebus, sir, seeing to the hold. I could have a man fetch him?"

"Yes, do. Tell him Commander Fitzjames wishes to see him."

"Commander Fitzjames," Tozer repeats, dumbly, almost forgetting himself. He never needed a name from him, never even wondered about it. Being handed this knowledge now, in such unexpected circumstances, is a very queer feeling. 

"Yes. Thank you.” the commander folds his hands behind his back, nodding again with an easy, reserved smile. He is all charm and confidence, there is no trace of his feeling as wrongfooted as Tozer does.

"Right away, sir." Tozer says, saluting again before turning away, grateful to shield his face. He marches quickly towards Erebus, planning to seek Bryant himself, if it will get him away from the dockside for a moment - but Heather crosses his path first.

“Sergeant,” he nods mildly, descending Terror’s gangway. 

“Fetch Bryant, will you? Tell him Commander Fitzjames wishes to see him.”

“Aye, sir.” Heather sets off towards Erebus at once. 

Tozer enters Terror with forced purpose, though he is not quite sure where he is going. It would be ridiculous to hide from the commander - third in command of Tozer’s own expedition, no less - but he has never found himself in a situation like this before. All of a sudden he wishes someone would give him an order, tell him where to stand or what to do.

He follows two men down into the hold on the pretense of checking that the supplies are being stowed correctly. Lieutenant Irving, a very serious young officer is down there already, curating a long list of provisions in tiny neat handwriting. It is hard to pin down any thought long in the hold, where it is dark and overwarm, the stink of manure from the livestock and the thudding of boxes being hefted against each other assaulting every sense. 

There is work to be done, and an expedition to prepare for. Tozer gathers himself, and returns to the dockyard.

* * *

Thankfully, by the time Solomon surfaces the commander has gone, and does not return. The rest of the afternoon is so blissfully hectic Tozer hasn’t room in his head to think about it. They labour long into the evening with the remaining tins and it isn’t until he is rolling his evening cigarette with Heather that those recollections begin to seep back into his consciousness, along with that strange sense of abashment which often accompanies his memories of his dear lieutenant. 

_Commander_ _James Fitzjames_. He has been promoted since Tozer last met him, which ought not to be a surprise, he was always very clever.

"Quieter than usual tonight, Sergeant," Heather says.

"Mm."

"Thinking of your Vi, perhaps? Or the voyage? I had a mate once who would get to ruminating, the night before sailing. It comes to you all at once, doesn't it? Those things you're leaving behind."

"I am thinking about what's for supper," Solomon grunts to shut Heather up.

"Well, that I can help you with. It is pork." 

"Hm." He responds, only half listening.

"Not what you fancied?"

"Eh?"

"Prefer beef to pork, do you?"

"I like them both well enough." Tozer shrugs, throwing down his fag end and crushing it beneath his heel. "Come on," he says, "enough loitering."

Long after supper, once he has washed and climbed into his hammock that evening and said his prayers, he allows himself to turn his thoughts to Violet. He has no token to remember her by - some men bring locks of their wives hair, they get themselves tattooed. He knew one man in Africa who had his favourite doxy swipe a handkerchief between her legs, and he kept it in his trunk to excite himself on lonely nights. Tozer thought it unbecoming and unmanly, the way the man boasted about it. 

Violet is not the sort of woman who cares for that sort of thing - locks of hair or trinkets, that is. “If I haven't given you enough to remember me by now then I'd rather you didn't think of me at all,” she’d said. 

Her rosewater scent no longer lingers, but the memory of their final night together is keen and bright in his imagination still. As the men of Terror settle and start to snore in the dark around him, he closes his eyes and remembers hers, glowing with desire. He summons up the clamouring heat of her body, picturing her in satin, then in lace, and then in nothing at all but strings and strings of pearls. 

Palming himself lazily beneath his blankets, Solomon wanders through a series of Violets, each more enticing than the last, until he settles finally on the provocative vision of her in trousers. In a waistcoat and top hat, or in the fine blue uniform of a young lieutenant. 

It's no good, this line of thinking, he knows it, but as old intimacies begin to bob to the surface he feels such a blazing dart of arousal he cannot resist following it to its end. Violet turns and grins and winks at him, her epaulettes gleaming, every button shining like a star. Her eyes darken and as she transforms before him he spends all of a sudden, jolting in his hammock. 

His eyes fly open, he struggles to keep his breathing under control, and hopes the men nearest him are sleeping - or at least will pretend they were if he catches their eye in the morning. He finds a handkerchief and does his best to clean himself up, then lies awake for the better part of an hour, troubled. 

Solomon has cared for others better, and for longer, but he holds that summer particularly dear, and on lonely nights his thoughts have often turned that way. Before he met Vi, at least. That such passions should return to him now is to be expected, he thinks; or at least easily explained. Seeing the man earlier in the day, and being unprepared for it just caused old fancies to bubble up, that's all, it is only nature. 

What is one man, in a crew of one hundred and thirty three? There is no reason for their paths to cross; they are on separate ships, after all, and soon enough the notion will lose its charm.

* * *

He does not see the commander again until late the next morning, when the marines are brought up on the deck of Terror for an inspection. Both captains are present, and the differences between them starker than ever. 

Crozier, an Irishman, is a reticent sort. Like Tozer himself, he speaks when there is a reason to speak, and only says as much as is worth saying. Next to Sir John's dignified vigor and the handsome commander's dashing confidence, Crozier shrinks somewhat, and appears cantankerous, but Solomon has spent enough time in the captain's presence now to know him to be competent, and the good opinions of men who have sailed with him before attest that he is a fine man to follow, if a little ill-humoured.

The inspection is satisfactory for all concerned - Tozer is particularly pleased, for he has been paying close attention to uniform this past week, and knows that all of his men are in good shape. Sir John is very complimentary, and has a fatherly smile and a friendly word for every man present.

"Just the armoury to survey, now, I think,” Commander Fitzjames says warmly, after they’ve had their look-over. “I would like to see you are thoroughly outfitted," he addresses Crozier.

He has it in him to be a captain, Tozer thinks. He knows all the things to say, how to hold himself right. Solomon wonders if that was evident four years ago, if he somehow did not see the truth of the man then. 

"I have checked the armoury," Crozier responds, "all is in good order."

"I do not doubt it," Fitzjames replies pleasantly, "but I do like to make sure I have done all that I can. Lead the way, Sergeant Tozer."

"Sir."

He isn’t startled by the order - he has the key to the armoury after all, and it is perfectly reasonable for the marine sergeant to attend an inspection of the firearms. Tozer turns and proceeds below deck, heading for the orlop with the commander close behind. They navigate the narrow passageways together, both ducking under beams as men stand aside or flatten themselves against the bulkhead to let them pass.

The armoury is in a very small cabin aft, past the enormous coiled cables which lie still like serpents sleeping. Tozer unlocks the door and slides it back wide enough for the commander to see inside. Everything is as it should be; the long two-barrel shotguns bracketed to the walls, the lockers are sealed and the boxes of shot tidily stacked on the shelves. 

The commander takes a lantern from the wall to see better, and stands half inside the little pantry, surveying everything with a look of experienced approval. The yellow beam of light passes slowly over shining black gunmetal and soft packing straw until he steps back, apparently satisfied, and looks at Solomon, who holds his nerve enough to watch him back. 

"All in good order. Have you everything you need, Sergeant Tozer?"

"I should think so, sir." 

"Excellent, excellent.” He nods, lowering his gaze, casting a glance at the rifles again, as if searching for conversation, “are you a good shot? The officers are taking bets on which ship will bring down the first white bear, you know."

"I’m a fair shot, sir." 

They must just behave as strangers, Solomon realises, that is all there is to it. He makes his own attempt, "have you ever been north before, sir?"

"I have not. A new challenge for both of us, eh?"

"I should say so."

Despite the casual attitudes they’ve adopted, they both feel the lull that follows. It fills up the space, it’s in the scent of timber and the dust hanging in the air. The commander sweeps his hair back from his face, where it has fallen into his eyes, and shoots a quick look about the deck as he does. His manner changes entirely, he leans in conspiratorially, almost whispering,

"Look here, I hope you know that… that is, I didn't know your name, and I certainly didn't… there was no _agenda_ on my part."

"Sir?" Solomon frowns.

"You are here on your own merit, that is all. I wanted to be quite clear."

"Yes, sir," Tozer says, rather taken aback. He had not considered the commander having any motives towards him. 

"I hope you have no reservations about the expedition."

"No, sir."

"Good! Captain Crozier is a fine man, I'm sure you've heard about his exploits in the Antarctic."

"I have, sir." He thinks a moment, and then says, "...it was a surprise for me as well, Commander, for I never knew your name either."

The commander meets his gaze again, and in an eyeblink it is as if no time at all has passed. They might still be in that stifling attic room, younger and wilder and completely enamored.

"No," the commander says, his adam's apple jumping in his long neck, "of course."

"I am glad to see you well, and in such a fine situation," Tozer commends him gently. "You have distinguished yourself, since last I saw you."

It would be nothing to reach out and squeeze his arm, but he doesn't do it.

"I… thank you, Sergeant,” the commander swallows again. “A lifetime ago, now, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would, sir,” Tozer agrees, and that is that; they are both understood. 

"Well, then," Commander Fitzjames straightens, raising his voice again. "On to the passage, eh?" He claps Solomon briskly on the arm, then backs out of the doorway. He was always very good at ending a conversation.

Tozer bends to lock up the armoury again, and once he turns back the commander has already crossed the deck and is halfway through the hatch. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm halfway through writing part 2, but life is strange and it'll be done when it's done (soon, I hope!)
> 
> I listen to loads of music when I'm fic writing, and the songs which most impacted this chapter were:  
> \- The Little Piece of Wang - A.L. Lloyd  
> \- Greetings to the new brunette - Billy Bragg  
> \- Cold bread - Johnny Flynn  
> \- Go to sea once more - The Dubliners


End file.
